


Favorite Place

by GrimmonsOwnsMyAss



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Grimmons-centric - Freeform, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Song fic, insecure Dexter Grif, musician! Simmons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:20:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27431908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimmonsOwnsMyAss/pseuds/GrimmonsOwnsMyAss
Summary: “I thought you were in some sort of secret relationship or cult or something,” Grif admits, aggressively nonchalant, like he’s trying too hard to sound normal.Simmons only laughs harder. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to be in a secret relationship with me.”Grif pauses for a moment, and a rare moment of insecurity seems to flash across his eyes. “I would.”That trips Simmons up. “What?” He practically wheezes with surprise, his face immediately flushing. Why is he suddenly out of breath?“I know someone who would want to be in a secret relationship with you.”
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Franklin Delano Donut/Frank "Doc" DuFresne, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	Favorite Place

**Author's Note:**

> All Time Low came out with a new album. This is the marriage of my favorite band and my favorite ship. (Literally every sappy song I hear reminds me of Grimmons so...)

Grif was hard to rattle. At least, he always thought that of himself. Laid back, hard to bother. But lately, things were...off to say the least.

Simmons was spending more and more time out of the apartment lately. If this was a normal roommate situation, he wouldn’t have thought anything of it. But this was Simmons. Can’t talk to girls or guys, can’t handle social situations, Simmons of all people. The dude who has panic attacks three times a week like clockwork. 

And he was acting suspicious, too.

“Where are you going?” Grif asked, lounging on the couch with some trashy reality television show playing in the background.

Simmons squeaked. “N-Nowhere.” Always a terrible liar, and Grif told him as much.

“I don’t really care where you’re going, dude, but you’re shit at lying, dude. Just thought I’d let you know.”

Grif shoved another cookie in his mouth, knowing that if he didn’t he would probably reveal something that would better be left under wraps.

Simmons flushed at the obvious call-out. “I’ll tell you soon. Promise.” He then hurried out the front door before Grif could respond. He tried not to think about the fact that Simmons has never kept something from him before. Previously, when Grif would call him out on an obvious lie, Simmons would come clean almost immediately. 

But this time, things were different. 

This weird stalemate of sorts had been going on for months at this point, and it sent Grif into overdrive. Thinking and rethinking about all his past interactions with the redhead and whether or not he played his cards too early. Did Simmons somehow find out about his massive crush? It’s been years at this point. He’s bound to find out eventually if he hasn’t already. 

It’s not like he could ever ask Simmons because the man was hardly ever in their apartment. Grif sighed, sinking further into the couch and shoving a snack cake into his mouth. How did they even get here? They’ve been best friends since freshman year in college when they were assigned as freshmen roommates. At first, they hated each other, couldn’t figure out how to get along. Simmons was too uptight and anal about things, and Grif was too messy and gross for Simmons to handle. But they quickly bonded over the assholes at the other end of the hall. Church and Tucker would blast music way too loud during quiet hours, and Caboose regularly caused property damage. They also found “allies” of a sort in Sarge and Donut, two starkly different men who lived in singles across the hall.

After finding a common enemy to hate, the two of them quickly found themselves in a weird semi-friendship of sorts. They hated each other, but at the same time, they were the only two people who could really handle each others’ personalities. 

So, they stayed roommates, even after college. It didn’t help that Simmons’ dad was an asshole and wouldn’t let him move back home when he graduated. He, apparently, had a problem with Dick coming out as bisexual in sophomore year. Grif couldn’t really give a shit. He was demisexual himself.

Looking back, it makes sense that he’d fall for the tight-ass nerd at some point. He definitely didn’t think he’d fall this hard, though.

So here he was, sitting in their empty apartment watching TV re-runs as the love of his life was out doing God-knows-want. When did my internal monologue become so housewife-y?

Grif snaps himself out of hit long enough to hear the lock turning in the front door. He looks at his phone. 2 in the morning? What the fuck is Dick doing out this late?

Simmons steps into the apartment with a soft, exhausted sigh. He stomps his boots to get any non-existent dirt off before hanging his jacket on one of the entryway hooks.

He startles when he sees Grif on the couch, but he relaxes quickly after.

“I didn’t think you’d still be up.”

His voice is softer than Grif is used to.

Grif grunts noncommittally before turning back to the TV. “Couldn’t sleep.” He grunts before giving Simmons a look. “How was going out and getting laid?”

Simmons laughs softly, plopping down on the couch next to Grif and becoming practically boneless against the cushions. “Definitely wasn’t getting laid.”

Grif raises an eyebrow but tries his best to keep the jealousy out of his voice. “You expect me to believe that you were out ‘til 2 in the morning not getting laid?”

Grif sips at the beer he’s had in his hand for an hour at this point. It’s warm now. 

“What were you doing then?”

He can see Simmons look at him from the corner of his eye, but he refuses to meet his gaze. He pretends to be invested in whether or not the guy on the screen is the father of some woman’s baby. It reminds him of Tucker.

Simmons sighs heavily, uncharacteristically heavy.

Grif feels a weight on his shoulder. It takes him a few seconds to realize that Simmons has rested his head on his shoulder, casually, as if they haven’t been skirting around this weird tension for years already. 

“I don’t like keeping things from you.” Simmons’ voice is soft when he finally speaks.

“Yeah, you’re shit at it.” Grif tries to keep his voice light, but even he can tell there’s a weird weight to his words. He’s revealing too much, but he’s not saying enough. He never does.

He tries not to tense as he feels Simmons’ bony hand find his own, lacing their fingers together like they’re already lovers.

Grif tries not to think about the pale thumb that strokes his knuckles fondly as they sit together, illuminated by the TV as one of the people runs offstage in embarrassment. Grif chuckles as the not-father does a backflip in celebration, sipping at his too-warm beer to fill the empty space.

“Donut and Doc’s anniversary party is this weekend,” Simmons says, unprompted. There has to be some meaning to it. They’ve never cared about Doc and Donut’s anniversary parties. Those two are high school sweethearts and sickeningly affectionate with each other. Grif is always simultaneously grossed out and jealous by their easy affection every time he sees the two together.

“Are we going?”

“I told them we would,” Simmons says, pressing closer into Grif’s side. “Is that okay?”

Grif pauses. He would do anything for the lanky redhead, but he cares enough about his reputation to not make that public knowledge. “Will there be free food?” 

Simmons snorts, and the fond thumb-stroking across his knuckles happens again. “Yeah, I made sure to request a platter of Oreos for you.”

It takes Grif a moment to realize that Simmons isn’t joking. “You actually had them order Oreos as part of their catering?”

Simmons nods, cheek rubbing against Grif’s shoulder. “Donut wasn’t happy about it, but he was willing to make an exception since it’s important to me.”

Grif hums questioningly as a new episode of the same trashy show starts to play. “Why’s it important to you if I’m there.”

Grif knows what he wants to hear, but he also knows it isn’t coming.

“That thing...that I’ve been doing…” Simmons answers slowly. “The big reveal is happening then. And I want you to be there for it.”

Grif finally turns to look at Simmons, weirdly beautiful Simmons.

He takes in the single green eye and the pale, freckled skin, and he hums noncommittally. “I guess if there’s free food and Oreos, I might as well show up.”

To anyone else, it would’ve sounded mean, but the way Simmons’ face lights up, he knows that the redhead got his meaning. 

Neither of them are the best at emotions, but they’ve developed their own sort of language at this point. They know each other too well by now. But, seeing Simmons’ thin lips stretch into a pretty grin, Grif knows he wouldn’t have it any other way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simmons was freaking out. More than usual.

He knew from the get-go that Grif would catch on if he outright lied, so he only ever hinted at what he was doing. It never really helped that they’re both idiots. 

He could always see the stress and worry on Grif’s face when he didn’t know the full truth of what was going on, what he was out doing until late in the night. He wanted to tell him so bad, but Donut and Tucker always stopped him.

Don’t ruin the big reveal. They always said, or some version of it. The message was always the same. Not yet.

But Simmons sucked at keeping secrets from Grif, ever since freshman year when they were paired up as roommates. Simmons had taken one look at his long curly hair and naturally dark skin and was immediately gone on him. He thought he could skate by with just being attracted to women, never acknowledging that sometimes a man caused him to stop and stare, but of course, he got stuck with the hottest roommate on the planet, a gorgeous Hawaiian man who could hold him down with little to no effort. The only thing that kept his attraction at bay was how messy the other man constantly was.

But, after years of living together, on and off-campus, Simmons decided that enough was enough. He was going to confess. He almost just bought Grif a pack of double-stuff Oreos and six-pack of beer for the occasion. But of course, Tucker had an idea.

Donut mentioned wanting live music at his anniversary party, and Tucker proposed forming a band. From there, things spiraled. They were rehearsing multiple nights a week, and as it went on, Simmons found himself revealing more and more to Grif. Nothing fixed the helpless look on the Hawaiian man’s face, and it made Simmons anxious.

On one hand, it was a sign that Grif cared, a possible sign that his feelings were requited. On the other, he constantly felt stressed and guilty for keeping things from his roommate. It’s hard not to blab. He tells Grif everything. 

But after months of prep, things were finally ready. They were at performing quality, and Donut had approved of their setlist. He even let Simmons write a particularly sappy confession song.

“It’s so romantic!” Donut said.

It should have taken a while to write, but after having been in love with his best friend and roommate for over a decade now, it was way easier to find the words than he thought. It was disgustingly affectionate by their standards even if most people wouldn't think much of it. But the two of them didn't do emotions usually, and he knows he’ll get shit for it in the future. But the idea of surprising Grif, of making those pretty dark cheeks flush, of causing him to trip over his words like Dick always seems to… that was too good to pass up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Simmons exhaled heavily, running one last hand through his hair and surveying his appearance.

Donut popped open the door and poked his head in, taking a look at Simmons’ styled hair and the copious amount of leather included in his outfit.

“You look hot!”

Simmons snorted. “Thanks, Donut.”

“C’mon, we gotta do a soundcheck before everyone gets here. I want everything to be perfect.”

Simmons nodded and made his way to the small stage where all of their equipment was sitting. It had taken a few hours to set up, and Simmons definitely wasn’t looking forward to cleaning up. Thankfully, the soundcheck was done before any of the guests even arrived, and Simmons didn’t even realize how anxious he was until a surprisingly put together Grif found him near the punch bowl.

“Breathe, Dick.” Grif murmured, casually catching his hand, holding it even though they were in public. His thick, warm thumb stroked the rough skin of his hand. The skin grafts after his awful car accident made it hard to feel confident sometimes, but Grif never seemed to care, touching the grafted skin as often as he touched Simmons’s normal skin. It made him feel...normal...attractive even. He’d never say as much out loud, though.

Of course, Donut chose that moment to address the crowd.

“Hey everyone!”

The crowd murmured back some various greetings, and Grif simply snorted in amusement. He’s never taken Donut seriously.

“I’ve got a surprise for the best hubby in the world,” Donut continued. Doc’s resulting coo was audible to everyone in the audience. “But it’s not just me that’s sending a message tonight! Please welcome to the stage ‘The Violet Bottoms!’”

Simmons sighed and forcefully let go of Grif’s hand. Before he approached the stage, Simmons turned towards the Hawaiian man and jabbed a finger in his face. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me for this!” 

He stalked off, leaving a stunned man with a plate full of Oreos in his wake. He easily stepped onto the slight raise platform, their stage, and grabbed his newest big purchase, a shiny, maroon guitar. It was a bit of a struggle to learn out to play with his cybernetic arm. He needed to tweak the controls for the right level of dexterity and timing a bit too often, but he got it to work!

He hated it, but he stepped up to the main microphone, relieving Donut of his duty as the blond man grabbed his own guitar and stepped up to one of the back-up microphones.

Tucker picked up his bass, and Caboose of all people was on drums. It was a weird combination of musicians, but Simmons found himself pretty confident in their ability. He was just paranoid about the weird look on Grif’s face.

It was a surprise to not see this man fully invested in the Oreos on the plate in front of him.

“Hey everyone,” Simmons cautiously spoke into the mic, cringing as his voice broke with nerves. “We’re the Violet Bottoms, and we hope you like our sound.”

He realized how lame it was to say that out loud, even if they had been talking about it for a while now, and they rehearsed everything multiple times, including their introduction. 

He found himself looking at a sea of faces. Sarge was no-doubt disappointed by his working with “blues” for this project. Doc was already in tears at the gesture of a full band. Washington was watching Junior, holding the kid’s hand as they both stared in awe at Tucker holding a bass. But Simmons was only worried about one man’s reaction, his roommate and best friend, his partner in crime, and hopefully soon-to-be lover. The only person who had enough emotional ammo to tear him apart but never did.

Grif’s face was one of shock, and it was hard to find any other emotion in the man’s face. Simmons just hoped the reaction wasn’t a negative one and looked to Caboose, who, for some reason, they all trusted to count them in. For all his faults, the idiot definitely had a sense of rhythm. 

They jumped into some of their safer songs, the ones that didn’t reveal any feelings. 

Simmons found himself, even while singing, eyeing his guitar. "I have a terrible stage presence," he thought. But the idea of looking out into the crowd and not finding Grif was worse than the idea of his voice cracking in the middle of a song.

But then, that song came up in their setlist. The one he, Tucker, and Donut wrote together with a certain few men in mind. It was simple, didn’t reveal too much, but the motivation behind the song was hard to hide from anyone who knew them. And everyone present at the party knew them way too well to not notice.

“This next one is called Favorite Place,” Simmons awkwardly says into the microphone. He chances a glance at Grif, and the Hawaiian’s face is practically unreadable, which is new territory for Simmons. He thought after knowing the other man for years, he’d be able to decode any look he gets, but this one threw him for a loop.

Caboose sets the beat, and soon they’re all playing along to the beat. And Simmons’s voice starts off, soft compared to the other songs.

I saw your face in a photograph  
Oh, how I wish that it could talk back  
I'd drive right off the Earth to find you  
If it meant that I could see you tonight  
And I know you don't belong (Know you don't belong)  
Know you don't belong to anyone  
No, you can't be tamed, love, and  
Maybe I was wrong (Maybe I was wrong)  
Maybe I was wrong for this  
But you feel like the sun on my face

Simmons found himself thinking about all the nights where he just wished he could bring Grif along with him to rehearsal, the original inspiration behind the lyrics, and how they were skating around something between them. And he thought about how seeing Grif felt like coming home, regardless of space. When they lived in shitty dorms, when they lived in an apartment with black mold in the walls, and where they lived now: a small house with creaky floors and peeling paint. He thought about sharing the main bedroom, about existing even more together than they already did.

So can we close the space between us now?  
It's the distance we don't need (Hey)  
Yeah, you're everything I love about  
The things I hate in me (Hey)  
So come on, come on, come over now and  
Fix me with your grace  
'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place

He thought about all the qualities in Grif that he used to ‘hate’. He always thought he hated the man’s laziness, but over time he realized how envious he really was, how he wanted to be as laid back, and able to relax as Grif always was. The most relaxed he ever felt, though, was when they were curled up on their ratty old couch watching Star Trek re-runs. Simmons seemed to be perpetually tense, but Grif had a way of easing that tension out of his body just by being there.

Thankfully, right as the emotions were getting to be too much, Tucker jumped in with his part of the song, the second verse. 

I saw your face in the fire again  
I touched the flames and burned down everything  
I hear the sirens west of 8th now  
Wonder if you're hearin' 'em too  
And I know you don't belong (Know you don't belong)  
Know you don't belong to anyone  
No, you can't be tamed, love  
Maybe I was wrong (Maybe I was wrong)  
Maybe I was wrong for this  
But you feel like the perfect escape now  
(Just like the sun on my face)

Simmons didn’t really mean to look, but it was hard to miss the absolute lovestruck expression on Washington’s face. Junior looked generally captivated by the whole band idea, too. His big brown eyes sparkling as he watched his dad strum away on his bass.

And when Donut carried the song home with the outro, eyeing his husband in a truly sinful way, Simmons found his gaze straying back towards Grif.

So come on, come on, come over now and  
Fix me with your grace  
'Cause I'm not too far and you're my favorite place

The rest of the setlist finished without any major issues, and the applause that resulted when they finished genuinely shocked him, and he found himself smiling wide in spite of his insecurities. He never thought a minor in music would go this way, but he couldn’t deny how much fun it was to play for people who genuinely enjoyed his music.

Grif stayed almost exactly where he was when the set started. The only difference is that he was no longer holding a plate of food, no doubt having finished his first (and maybe second) before Simmons was even done with his performance.

Gif didn’t say anything really. He just dragged Simmons out of the backyard where the party was behind held, pulling him through the house until they were both in the front yard, no witnesses nearby. 

“You’re in a band?”

Simmons couldn’t help but laugh at the incredulous tone of voice. “Surprise!” He did a lame attempt at jazz hands before giving up.

Grif eyed him, expression unchanging.

“I thought you were in some sort of secret relationship or cult or something,” Grif admits, aggressively nonchalant, like he’s trying too hard to sound normal.

Simmons only laughs harder. “I can’t think of anyone who would want to be in a secret relationship with me.”

Grif pauses for a moment, and a rare moment of insecurity seems to flash across his eyes. “I would.”

That trips Simmons up. “What?” He practically wheezes with surprise, his face immediately flushing. Why is he suddenly out of breath?

“I know someone who would want to be in a secret relationship with you.”

Grif sounds breathless, and it’s doing weird things to Simmons’ stomach. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Simmons swallows, and Grif’s dark brown eyes track the movement. “Fuck it.”

He surges forward and connects their lips. Large, warm hands find his waist, and Simmons can’t fathom why it ever took them this long.


End file.
